


The Night Within Us

by CollingwoodGirl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Darkness, F/M, Hiding, Morse Code, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6576214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollingwoodGirl/pseuds/CollingwoodGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Perhaps he bears his burdens better in the dark,</em> he thinks. <em>Perhaps they both do.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Within Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaslightgallows (hearts_blood)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_blood/gifts).



> For Gaslight Gallows. It's not _the_ thing. But it is _a_ thing. So much love for you! Happy Birthday!
> 
> Jack's quote at the last is courtesy of Victor Hugo.

"Jack!" she whispers, hating the traitorous tremor in her voice as she is dragged into the closest refuge he can find - an onion cupboard most definitely not designed to harbour the likes of one rogue detective, let alone two. "I'm really _not_ good with confined spaces."

He knows about her wayward youth - her even more wayward father - and feels a pang of regret. But with the footsteps and vengeful voices approaching, he has little choice. He presses his lips tight to her ear. "Not another word." His fingers are warm against her chilled lips until he feels her nod of compliance and lets them fall away.

 

After pulling the heavy wooden hatch over their heads, Jack lays a steadying arm around her shoulder, determined to offer what little comfort he may to quell the latent fear within her. Burying her nose into his collar, she inhales the warm rich scent of him. It soothes her - in spite of the blinding darkness, the imposed silence - and loosens the tightness in her lungs. 

It takes only a moment for Phryne to find her courage again - an admirable feat - but she feels sheepish about the vulnerability all the same. Pressing her forehead to the side of Jack's face, she lets out a soft sigh and nods her assurance that she is alright.

He is almost relieved to feel her let go and crouches as far into the corner as he can squeeze - the need to steady himself, overwhelming. He tries to focus on keeping them safe. He needs to think. To plan. To puzzle out the fitting of their cramped bodies so they don't give themselves away. 

It isn't long before he realizes how foolish it is to believe anyone could know more about corporeal geometry than Miss Fisher.

The steadiness of her palms on his shoulders give him more reason to be afraid than the discovery of their unlawful presence in the home of the foremost black market trader in Victoria.

She pushes him into a seated position - somewhat awkwardly as he extracts a potato, by the feel of it, from under his rump - and guides his knees to cross in front of him so they flare past his hips and kiss the confines of the cupboard. Then, with all the grace of a queen taking her throne, she settles her weight into the triangle forged by Jack's lap and his thighs and winds her legs around his waist.

He curses himself for waking up this morning. For agreeing to sneak into this miscreant's homestead without a proper warrant. For wanting to help her whenever she asked. And most of all, for the excitement that boils the blood in his veins at the pressure of her ankles astride his spine, her thighs riding his, her fingers lighting along the lapels of his overcoat for balance.

Warmth blooms across her skin as his whoosh of breath gusts against her cheek. Her thumb swipes gently across his disciplined mouth and Phryne knows that if she could see his face, it would be pulled into the familiar grimace of self control. 

Jack catches her fingers before she can unsettle him further or tempt him into embarrassment. The mere thought of kissing her in that French cafe can still bring a blush to his neck, as she delights in reminding him. 

He turns her hand over between them. It is reminiscent of how she once read his palm, tracing his longevity line, and Jack realizes with sudden clarity how they can communicate without betraying their hiding place.

Covering her palm with his long fingers, he circles them rhythmically around it before sliding his entire hand over it, clearing the slate. Her fast shallow breathing signifies her rapt attention. Jack attempts to ignore the slight squeeze of her knees against his ribs as he readies the tip of his index finger over her hand. 

Press   Stroke   Stroke   Press

Press   Press   Press   Press

Press   Stroke   Press

Stroke   Press   Stroke   Stroke

Stroke   Press

Press

Phryne gasps in comprehension as Jack taps out her name in dots and dashes. She has always found diversion in her covert missions but Morse Code has never felt especially erotic until this moment. When he caresses her with the single dot for "E", she grasps for his tie in the dark, pulling him close so she can grin appreciatively against his cheek. Releasing him just as quickly, she takes his hand into hers - greedy to return the message.

Press   Stroke   Stroke   Stroke

Press   Stroke

Stroke   Press   Stroke   Press

Stroke   Press   Stroke

Perhaps this wasn't such a keen idea, Jack considers, shifting against trousers that fit a bit more snug than moments before. They trade single words at first, repeating bits of overheard conversation until they are adept at delivering and deciphering the messages:  
Shipment -- 17th -- Adelaide

They are soon laying down plans as easily as if they were in her parlour rather than a produce larder:  
TipOff -- Warrant -- Raid

Even when it seemed their unwanted company had finally departed nonethewiser, they were loathe to stop:  
Time? -- Soon -- Best be safe 

Their hands tingle with the words better left unspoken between them. Fingers fly over flesh. It is the most intimate conversation he has had in years.

Sensing the danger, he moves to reassert possession of his hand. She does not oblige. The coded phrases are suddenly more complicated - and not merely in execution.

L-o-o-k   a-t   m-e, she taps. 

T-o-o   d-a-r-k

S-o   m-u-c-h   t-h-e   b-e-t-t-e-r

He considers this. She is not wrong. The darkness is both concentrated and vast. Constricting and somehow... freeing. _Perhaps he bears his burdens better in the dark_ , he thinks. _Perhaps they both do_. 

Her height is in her legs he knows - though he won't dwell too long on how he has come to be in mental possession of her proportions - and so he trains his eyes on the space in front of him, tipping his chin down slightly until he can feel her breath squarely on his throat. It is wet and warm and honest. 

Gone is the little girl frightened by small spaces. Gone is the swanky lustre of the titled heiress. Gone is the insinuating detective, simpering for confidential information. Phryne Fisher is all of these things of course - and more. But as she takes his hands in hers, those glittering facets seem less dazzling than the whole of her.

Jack looks as he has never allowed himself to look before, shielded by the filmy black gauze that envelops them. He drinks her in - his image of her. 

The black beret sits atop her head - a taunt to anyone who thinks her incapable of scaling a building in her Louis heels - and frames the sleek cap of hair with its long ends tucked behind her ears. Her eyes, though soft, are bright with mischief and regard him fondly under the cover of devastatingly black lashes. Scarlet lips curl in a self-satisfied moue tempting him into their velvet fathoms. Her stubborn chin juts out over the long lines of her throat, where the thin skin is so delicate he can almost see her heartbeat pulsing beneath it. 

He desperately wants to lean forward to taste it. Imagines the salt stinging his tongue, the bitter base notes of her perfume contrasting with the ambrosia of her skin.

Until he is no longer imagining. 

"Yes," she breathes, abandoning the code entirely. But even if they hadn't been left alone, another living soul could not have heard it. It is a quiet heart-sound, spoken only for him. A sound of singular meaning and boundless possibilities. A sound that makes him tremble.

She feels the tremor in his bones and kisses him ruthlessly before he can change his mind. If he dares play the fickle philly now, he will have to carry the weight of this kiss with him.

"Wait," he huffs, unable to heed his own words as he threads his fingers into her hair to pull her back to the heat of his mouth. "Wait!"

"I'm done waiting," she says and drives her fingers beneath the broadcloth at his back to reach burning skin at long last.

"Phryne- Christ!" He casts out for distraction and bites her lip, a crude but effective tactic as it turns out. "I don't intend to wait for long- oh God. But can we please get out of here first?"

She knocks the wind out of him - but not from collapsing hard against his chest in a fit of silent giggles at their predicament. It's when, leading their way back to the Hispano with the eyes of a fox, she stops mid-step to turn and look at him. Phryne knows what he must be thinking - that in the light of day, things will be different. Daylight is fading, that much is true, but she cradles his jaw and presses tender lips to the corner of his mouth as they stand under the sapphire sky and hopes that it is promise enough.

They succumb to sleep, as golden light filters through the thin curtains of Jack's flat, with their limbs tangled together - a luxury forged in the dark and one they are no longer willing to live without.

Against her bare shoulder he presses a kiss and murmurs, "What makes night within us may leave stars."

 

 


End file.
